


out of the blue

by Idday



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - You've Got Mail Fusion, M/M, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 17:14:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10540947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idday/pseuds/Idday
Summary: Jack keeps accidentally having sex with Connor McDavid.Also, he may or may not be falling for some dude over Twitter that he's never even met.(These two facts are in no way related.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> As always, please do not read if you are or know somebody whose name appears above. It's best for all of us.
> 
> This follows real life fairly closely event wise (as far as I can tell, research was minimal at best) but some events have been changed for ~plot~ (like Jack going to the NHL Awards/All-Star Games). Just roll with it. I didn't check to see if the Twitters mentioned here are real? They may be. If so, they are unrelated to this story and stealing somebody's handle was not my intention.

Jack turns his phone off after he watches the draft lottery, partly because he’s already in hot water after his last drunken Snapchat escapade and he’s definitely had a few beers and doesn’t want to tempt himself, mostly just because everybody he’s ever met is blowing up his phone with varying degrees of congratulations or sympathies or—in Hanny’s case—more bitching that he didn’t go to the lottery, and he would like to sleep at some point despite his phone going haywire.

When he wakes up, closer to afternoon than morning, he has, like, two hundred unread texts, a few missed calls, and more than a few unread Twitter messages.

Which is pretty much exactly what he expected.

He thumbs through them slowly, mostly disregarding, mostly still asleep.

For a moment, he thinks that one of the Twitter DMs—one of the less explicit ones—is actually a mistake, somehow, because he’s pretty sure it’s not for him.

And then he realizes that it’s just for his other account.

Like, he’s an eighteen-year-old with a verified Twitter account and more than ten thousand followers—and his count just leaped up by a few more thousand overnight. And it’s not like that doesn’t occasionally have its perks.

But sometimes he would really just like to be able to follow whoever he wants without fucking pundits from two nations analyzing his every move, or would like to be able to comment on a hockey game without people taking his opinion as gospel, or would just like to be able to do what he did last night—which was correct some dude who was hilariously wrong about a shootout move from a video from some no-name European league—without it being brought up on Sportsnet, or something.

Which is why he signed to BU and then created the new account on the same day. This one doesn’t have a picture of him, or his name, or any information at all, really, besides the handle “BUHawkey.” He has, like, eight followers. It’s great.

But he’s certainly never been contacted on his fake account, which is why it takes him a minute to wake up enough to realize that “GTAMapleLeaves” was the dude that he’d been arguing with last night, before the lottery results were announced, and that it’s the same guy who just DMed him on his fake account.

_You’re still wrong but did you play somewhere? You know a lot about hockey and I say that as a Canadian lol_

Jack should really, really not respond. There’s no reason to.

His phone buzzes again, one of the USNDTP guys: _Buffalo, dude? Congrats I guess lol_

There’s no reason to, except that sometimes, Jack still wishes that he was anonymous.

_I played a little in college,_ he writes back to “GTAMapleLeaves,” and assumes that’s that.

By the time he’s rolled out of bed and brushed his teeth, the guy has written back: _cool, where was that?_

Jack pauses, shirt halfway over his head. BU is a big hockey school, and there’s no way to get around that. Hell, if he made up a school, this guy would probably google it. _Nowhere you’ve heard of,_ he sends back finally, because he’s already lying at this point, basically straight up, so what’s the point of feeling bad about it now? He bites his lip, adds, partly because it seems like the right thing to do, _you?_

_Some juniors,_ the guy replies a half-minute later. _Nowhere you’ve heard of, lol. Just a fan now._

He doesn’t ask about the draft lottery. Jack certainly doesn’t tell.

…

The first time that he meets Connor McDavid is not actually the first time that he meets Connor McDavid, strictly speaking.

On the ice doesn’t count; Jack knows that. But off, they met once, a few years back, in the hallway of some arena at some tournament they played before Jack became a thing, but after Connor already was.

Jack doesn’t remember what they said, or anything. Something dumb, probably, and Jack introduced himself—only by first name—and Connor didn’t need to.

He mostly remembers it because Connor strikes him the same way both times: smaller in person than he seems like he should be, especially out of his pads, his voice a little deeper. He has a face that he needs to grow into, almost, but it’s not the sort of face that Jack has a hard time imagining on the covers of magazines, or anything.

He also remembers it because he wants to see if Connor will, even though there’s no reason that Connor would remember one of a few hundred generic hockey dudes he’s played against in his lifetime. It’s petty and he knows it, because Connor’s been getting recognized for, like, half of his life at this point, and Jack’s still getting used to people at his own school caring who he is.

Despite all the draft talk, Jack isn’t under the impression that he’s on Connor’s level. He’s not dumb; he knows it’s just because sports writers admitting that Connor’s too much better than the rest of them to even compare is boring.

But. A part of him wants to see if Connor remembers him, anyway.

He doesn’t. He shakes Jack’s hand and introduces himself, which makes Jack want to roll his eyes, even though he doesn’t, and it’s all very professional. Low key, like he tells the cameras when they ask.

He didn’t expect anything else, really.

But. It’s not the first time that he meets Connor McDavid.

It’s just the first time that Connor McDavid meets him.

…

Jack sort of expects that whatever this thing is with “GTAMapleLeaves” will taper off after a few messages, only it never really does.

Which is fine, because despite an unfortunate attachment to the Leafs and Toronto in general, the dude seems pretty cool and mostly knows his hockey shit and also Jack really, really needs someone in his life who doesn’t know that he’s famous.

Well. Besides his sister, who knows, but aggressively doesn’t care.

The problem is that the thing—the talking, or whatever—never really goes away, and so neither does the problem of Jack not being able to talk about himself in any meaningful way.

This guy already knows he’s from Boston and played college hockey. There’s only so much farther he can take this.

And Jack can’t exactly ask the guy any probing questions that he’s not willing to answer himself, which means that he doesn’t know what this guy does for a living or what his real name is or what he looks like.

He asks for Jack’s number, once, because DMing on Twitter is admittedly getting a little old, and Jack’s too paranoid to give him even that.

He does ask what Jack’s name is, eventually. Jack bites his lip, says, _John._

This isn’t actually a lie, even if nobody in living memory has actually called him that. Plus, it’s a common enough name that it’s probably not going to give him away, or anything.

When he asks, the guy says back, _lol this isn’t actually my given name but my friends call me Davey_

At the end of the day, though, David is almost as common as John is, and there are, like, millions of people living in the Toronto area.

So. It’s not like he’s any closer to knowing who he’s talking to than Davey is, really. Somehow, that doesn’t make him feel better.

Maybe he’s just been watching too much Catfish.

…

Connor definitely remembers him the second time they meet, in Chicago.

Of course, that might be because they have to troop around together in a little pack, all in their suits, herded around by official looking people with badges and clipboards. They’re kind of hard to miss.

Jack sticks mostly with Hanny, anyway. Connor sticks mostly with the Canadians, which is everybody else. Somehow, after they meet the players and get steered into their seats, though, they wind up sitting next to each other.

Jack can honestly say that he would pretty much rather be sitting anywhere else. He already knows Hanny, obviously, but he gets along fine with Strome and Marner, too, even Crouse. With Connor, it’s just… tense. Strange. He keeps staring at Jack and then jerking his head away when Jack catches him. He’s sitting so far tilted away from Jack in his seat that his head’s practically on Stromer’s shoulder, and he yanks his elbow away from their shared armrest when Jack sits back.

Which, fine, he’s not going to complain about having the armrest, or whatever, but it’s not like he’s going to bite.

It just. It feels like they should be able to sit in silence for a few hours without things being weird. Especially because, like, if nothing else, they have hockey in common, and now they get to watch a fucking Stanley Cup playoff game, which, until he plays in one himself, Jack fully expects to be one of the most exciting games of his life.   

But. It’s just still really fucking weird.

…

Davey thinks that Tampa has a real shot. Jack, of course, is forced to set him straight, which is a little hard to do when his reason is _you’ve never met Jonathan Toews in person._

Because he can’t admit that he has.

It’s the second intermission. Jack wants, but can’t have, a beer. He also wants to not be wearing a suit right now, and not just because he’s fucking sweating because sitting here next to Connor is stressing him out.

Connor is not sweating. He’s relaxed a little over the course of the game, at least, enough that their elbows are brushing every now and then without Connor pulling his startled deer routine. He keeps laughing at truly un-funny things that Stromer is saying and his face is still kind of weird but he must have borrowed aftershave from his dad, or something, because he smells good, even over the nacho and beer and sweat stink of the rest of the arena.

When he catches Jack smiling at his phone—whatever if it’s rude because Connor keeps checking his, too—he looks like he wants to ask, for a split second, and then thinks better of it.

“Just an old buddy,” Jack offers, because, like, he’s an adult. Plus, he considers himself to be an easy dude to make conversation with, and it’s pissing him off that he doesn’t have anything to say. “He thinks that Tampa could take it.”

“They could,” Connor says earnestly, which at least gives them something to talk about until the third period starts because Jack can easily spend the next three minutes arguing with him about that.

…

By the time that Jack gets someone to open the door to Marner’s room, he’s pretty sure that he’s, like, a good four or five drinks behind everybody else.

Even Hanny, who texted him to come by, is already pink in the face, and he has to shout to be heard over the pounding music. Their parents may all be on different floors, but that doesn’t mean they’re not about to get shut down, either. Still. They’ve got vodka, so Jack’s in.

It’s not all the prospects, obviously, but at least it’s more than just him and Hanny and the Canadian dudes. They’re all fine, but Jack’s getting pretty fucking sick of the six-headed monster thing they’ve been doing for the past few weeks.

Connor’s by the beers, talking to someone that Jack doesn’t recognize off hand but who clearly recognizes him, because he shouts, “Eichs!” and pounds him on the back and then pours him a slug of vodka into a plastic cup.

“There’s soda?” Connor offers. He’s either been drinking for a while or he’s sort of a lightweight—probably both—because the way his cheeks are flushed and his hair’s all askew doesn’t really do anything to help the way he always sort of looks like a baby deer, or something, with his big wide eyes and his long limbs and the earnest way he’s holding a can of coke in Jack’s direction.

He takes it, because it feels like it would be almost mean not to, but he doesn’t pour it in his cup, just swigs the vodka straight and then cracks the can open to chase with. It’s better than the stuff he drinks at school, anyway. There’s no need for Connor to look so impressed. Connor’s mystery friend pours him more and then wanders off, yelling something about Nicki Minaj.

“Sorry about the snakes,” Connor says after a moment, and Jack’s basically drinking to forget about the snakes, so that’s not great, but he just shrugs.

“I just don’t like fucking reptiles,” he says, and tries to be casual. It’s not like he’s _afraid,_ or anything. Just. Like. That he hates them. “I don’t get why that has to be a thing. They’re fucking predators, you know? They’re not, like, cuddly or cute, or anything. Why do I have to fucking hold one?”

“I don’t like octopus,” Connor blurts out. Jack raises his eyebrows. Takes another shot. When he grabs the bottle of vodka, Connor holds his cup out, too, and so Jack pours him some more, even though he has his doubts about Connor holding his liquor, because who is he to make that call, really. “I guess that’s not the same thing,” Connor pushes on, “I’ve never had to meet one. I mean. You don’t meet animals. I’ve never had to see one, though. But I don’t… they have so many legs. Who needs that many legs?”

“Good luck playing in Detroit, then,” Jack says drily, and that’s when Dylan Strome plasters himself against Jack’s back.

“You beauty,” he croons right in Jack’s ear for no apparent reason, and Jack’s a pretty big guy but Stromer still weighs like 200 pounds and isn’t holding himself up at all, and so Jack thinks that he has a pretty understated reaction, all things considered.

Understated being him _not_ dropping Stromer on the ground and instead just saying, “what the fuck, dude?”

“Jack’s funny,” Connor informs him very seriously, and then Stromer licks his neck.

So that’s pretty much the last straw.

“Marner,” he bellows, and hoists Dylan upright, “will you come get your boy?”

Marner rolls his eyes and comes over, and at least if Stromer tries this trick with him, they’re both going to fall down.

“You’re going to be so hungover tomorrow,” Jack says, once Dylan’s slumped himself over onto Marner’s shoulder, instead, and then he finishes his vodka because he’s a hypocrite.

Stromer shrugs. “I’m pretty sure Ryan was still drunk,” he slurs, but it makes Connor put his half-full cup down and frown.

“I should go to bed,” he says, and then sways when he takes a step forward.

Jack steadies him, if only because he doesn’t want to go first in the morning just because Connor tripped and died on the way back to his hotel room. “Yeah, me too,” he says, and tosses his empty cup at Stromer’s head, misses intentionally by half a foot. “I’ll come with you.”

They’re all on the same floor. They pass Connor’s door, first, and he’s still unsteady, has to lean on the wall to try to fish his room key out of his back pocket.

“You excited for tomorrow?” He asks, and it’s not a subject that Jack’s particularly interested in discussing with him, but he’s invested at this point in making sure that Connor doesn’t die in his sleep, or something, so he can’t just walk away.

He reaches around Connor, fishes in his back pocket to just grab the wallet himself. Connor stumbles into him, says, “oh.”

“I guess,” Jack says, and pulls out the keycard. “You must be. Big day for you.”

Connor taking his own shoes off promises to be so disastrous that Jack just pushes him onto the closest bed and then kneels down himself. He can’t be sure that it’s not Dylan’s bed, and he doesn’t really care.

Connor pats him on the shoulder when he starts in on the laces. “You, too,” he says, and it’s… it is a big day, for Jack. He’s trying to focus on that, on the part where even a year ago being drafted second would have been a dream come true, the part where five years ago playing in the NHL was a pipedream. He’s trying not to focus on the part where it feels more like losing than winning, somehow.

“I guess,” he says, and pulls the shoe off, starts on the other. He’s a little too drunk for this, too, and he knows it because he keeps talking and can’t bring himself to care, even though Connor is maybe the last person on planet earth who he should be talking to about the draft. But then, things are already weird enough, so it’s not like he could make it worse. “At least we know, right? I mean, even Stromer and Marner and Hanny, they could go wherever still. At least we don’t have to wait and see. Like. I don’t know if I’ll go back to school next year yet, but if I don’t, I know I’m going to Buffalo already.”

“You could go first,” Connor says softly.

Jack pulls his other shoe off, looks him dead in the eyes. “Don’t,” he says. “We both know… just don’t.”

Connor sucks his lower lip into his mouth.

“Don’t say sorry,” Jack warns. “It’s not like… whatever. I wouldn’t want to go to Edmonton anyway, you know.”

“Um,” Connor says, and looks away. “Yeah, I know.”

Jack stands. “If it helps,” he says, “if I got to pick, it wouldn’t be… I mean, Buffalo would be way down on that list, you know?”

“I can’t tell people I don’t want to go to Edmonton,” Connor blurts, and then falls back onto the bed. “I mean… the media, obviously. But even, like, Stromer. Because if I say that, then it’s like I’m not grateful that I’m going first. And it makes him feel bad, I think. But. He gets to go to Arizona or maybe Toronto. I would do anything for Toronto. And at least Arizona is… Edmonton is so fucking cold, Jack. It’s so cold there.”

Jack winces, sits on the mattress. This is not a conversation that he imagined himself having a week ago. “I know you’re grateful,” he says. “I mean, I would be. I _am._ But that’s my thing, right, because if I’m grateful to go second, then I don’t want it enough, but if I say I want to go first then I’m _un_ grateful, and I know that any one of these guys would shank me with my own skate blade to be in my position, but then it’s like, dude, my own team doesn’t even want me, right? So as far as I’m concerned, I’m grateful enough. But. I can’t be grateful enough for the whole city.”

“They want you,” Connor says, and fumbles his hand down to pat at Jack’s. It’s a little clammy, but warm. It’s still not the weirdest thing that has happened tonight.

“No, they don’t,” Jack says, and feels it prickle behind his eyes for a minute. But then he blinks it away, because, like, whatever. He’s already had that particular crisis. “But I guess they’re just gonna have to deal, you know? I did.”

Connor squeezes his fingers. “I don’t know why… I watched you play, you know? You’re so good. You’re gonna be so great. If I lived in Buffalo, I would be so happy.”

“You would hate Buffalo,” Jack tells him, “you’d have to start hating the Leafs.”

“If I lived in Buffalo I already would, probably. Plus, I’d be American. I bet they wouldn’t write stuff about us if we were both American.”

“Maybe,” Jack says, and lies back, too, because he’s tired and drunk and having a heart to heart with his arch rival. “I didn’t know I was good enough to make it until I played you, though.”

Connor blinks at him, slowly, with his big, deer eyes.

“U-18?” Jack says. “You probably don’t remember, but we met then. That was actually the first time. I lied, when I said that it was at the combine, but I figured you probably didn’t remember, because I was nobody and you were already… you know. Anyway. That tournament was the first time I thought maybe I actually had a shot.”

“I remember,” Connor tells him. “I thought you didn’t.”

Jack snorts out a laugh. “You’re not the kind of player that people forget.”

“Neither are you,” Connor says. “I remember the game, and I remember when we met in the hall, too. I thought the same thing then that I did when we met at the combine.”

“Yeah? And what was that.”

Connor looks at him for a long moment, rolls a little clumsily onto his side. Their hands are still touching. He leans over, slowly enough that Jack sees it coming, and kisses him.

For a second, Jack thinks, _he didn’t answer the question._ And then Connor opens his mouth and Jack thinks that this might be the answer to the question.

His mouth is warm and wet and a little sloppy. Jack lets it happen for a moment, kisses back. They both taste like vodka, and that’s what makes Jack pull back.

“You’re drunk,” he says softly.

Connor frowns. His cheeks are red. “So are you.”

“Okay,” Jack shrugs, “so we’re both drunk. That doesn’t… that’s not better.”

Connor’s stiff now, swallows hard and looks away.

“Look,” Jack tries, “I’m not—”

“I think you should go,” Connor tells him, and rolls over. He’s still in his jeans. For some reason, that’s what Jack notices, because he wouldn’t want to sleep in his jeans and Connor probably isn’t going to take them off but he’s certainly not going to let Jack do it. Jack doesn’t even know why he cares.

“Connor,” he says. His lips are tingling.

“I have a big day tomorrow,” Connor mumbles into the pillow, and it’s probably supposed to be a jab, is supposed to piss Jack off, but he sounds so pitiful that it doesn’t really work.

Jack stands, puts the shoes neatly by the wall so that Dylan doesn’t trip over them when he inevitably stumbles in later.

“Fine,” he says. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Hanny still isn’t back in their room. Alone, in the bright lights of the bathroom, he feels drunker than ever, sits down on the cold tile of the floor just to feel grounded. He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes, wonders if he’s going to be sick. Decides against it on principle.

He does take his jeans off, slips into bed in his boxers and t-shirt. He can still picture the way Connor looked in the second before he kissed Jack.

_Worst fukcing weekend,_ he shoots off to Davey, and falls asleep waiting for a response.

…

They wake up late the next morning, him and Hanny, because Jack forgot to set an alarm and Hanny slept through his the first time. It means they have to rush in the shower to meet their parents for breakfast, and also that Jack’s too busy trying to get himself together enough for the international media to be tempted to talk to Hanny about what happened last night.

Which. He is tempted, so that’s good.

_What happened?_ Davey sends back when Jack is in the elevator.

_About to get transferred for my job to a city I don’t really want to live in,_ Jack types back after a long moment, _also kinda thought something was going to happen with this person but I think I fucked it up so now probably not. Sorry. I was a little too drunk last night._

He has to put his phone away when he sees his parents. He checks again when he goes to the bathroom, though, sees a few new messages.

_That sucks, I’m sorry_

_If it helps, I made a complete fool of myself last night in front of someone I think I like_

Jack sighs, looks at himself in the mirror. He does not feel ready to go out there and plaster on a smile and pretend that he doesn’t resent Buffalo and pretend that nothing happened with Connor and pretend like he wants to be here doing any of this, really. He wants the hockey part. The rest, he can’t bring himself to care about.

_Idk if that helps haha because it sucks that you’re having a rough time too. Maybe something’s catching._

…

Everything goes exactly how Jack expects it to.

Connor goes first, and Jack goes second, and Connor won’t look at him. Jack gets back to the greenroom first because Connor stays to watch Dylan be drafted, and then when they fall into the room together, laughing, Dylan gives Jack a hug and Connor gives him a nod where they don’t look at each other so that Dylan doesn’t ask questions.

They take pictures together, and Connor won’t touch him.

So.

Everything goes exactly how Jack expects it to.

…

Jack sees him across the lobby back at the hotel and abruptly can’t take it any longer. He doesn’t want this to be a thing for the next fifteen years. Their thing is already a thing and he doesn’t want the reason that it gets worse to be that Connor doesn’t think that Jack can handle being his drunken mistake _._

Jack’s been other people’s drunken mistake before. He’ll be fine.

“Hey,” he calls, and jogs over before Connor can leave. He looks up, startled, deer-in-the-headlights. Whoever he’s talking to, his brother, probably, because there’s more than a passing resemblance, raises his eyebrows.

“Hey,” Jack says again, this time to the brother, and then to Connor, “can I talk to you?”

The brother glances at Connor, says to Jack, “congrats, man. Dinner at seven, Connor,” and then ambles away.

“Listen,” Jack starts, before Connor can slip away, “I get that you’re embarrassed about last night.” Connor blushes, looks at his feet. “But I just wanna say that you don’t have to be,” Jack barrels on. “We all do things we regret when we’re drunk, okay? I mean, this obviously isn’t the first time that someone’s kissed me and regretted it in the morning. This doesn’t have to be a thing. I’m not… I don’t care about that.  But, like, we’re going to have to see each other pretty routinely for the next however many decades, so maybe we can just agree to forget about it and move on?”

Connor blinks at him. “I’m not embarrassed that I kissed you,” he says slowly.

Someone across the lobby calls his name, flashes thumbs up when they both look over. “Can we not… here?” Connor says, motions around the lobby, so Jack follows him into the elevator.

“Look,” Jack starts, but Connor speaks again, carefully.

“I’m not… I was embarrassed that I kissed you, but not that I kissed… you. I don’t know if that… I don’t know.”

“Me neither,” Jack says honestly. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Connor sighs. He still won’t look at Jack. “I’m embarrassed that I got too drunk and that I said things that I shouldn’t have said and that I, like, made a move on you that you clearly didn’t want. But I’m not embarrassed because it was with you.”

The elevator dings open at their floor. Connor leaves without looking back, and Jack has to half-jog to catch up. “What do you mean that I didn’t want?” He asks, as Connor gets his key out of his wallet. “I didn’t… I left because you seemed too drunk and I was definitely too drunk and that would have been, like, super not chill. I didn’t leave because I didn’t like it.”

Connor does look at him then, and Jack feels like it’s for the first time. There’s nothing innocent about his eyes this time. “So if I kissed you sober,” he says, “you would still want that?”

“Maybe,” Jack says slowly, and he could be wrong, but it sounds like Connor wants… “Maybe you should find out.”

Connor slides his key into the door. The lock flashes green. “Not here,” he says reasonably, looking down the hallway. “Want to come in?”

Jack does want, even though he probably shouldn’t.

Connor pulls him into the bathroom, and Jack has to blink to adjust to the too-bright lights.

“I don’t know when Dylan’s coming back,” Connor explains, but Jack doesn’t want to talk about Dylan and he doesn’t really want to see if Connor’s going to follow through.

He kisses first, hard, and Connor opens to him. It hurts, just for a second, and Jack thinks of Connor wearing orange and holding up his finger number one and he enjoys that, just for that second, and then it softens and that’s even better. Connor’s mouth is just as wet and just as warm, but this time he tastes like spearmint. He goes easily when Jack pushes him back, hoists himself up on the counter when Jack walks him into it.

He’s taller than Jack like this, by a few inches. Jack has to tilt his face up to let Connor kiss him again. He’s not sure that he minds.

Connor pushes the suit coat off of his shoulders and it crumples on the floor, and as expensive as it was, Jack’s already been drafted and he doesn’t give a damn. Connor shrugs out of his own, too, uses Jack’s tie to pull him back in.

Jack’s worn a lot of ties, in his life. He knows how to get one undone without looking, and so does Connor, apparently, drops Jack’s to the floor and then loops arms around his neck instead.

They kiss like that for a while, drifting, slow. Jack untucks the back of Connor’s shirt enough to get his fingers under it, has to ruck up his undershirt, too, to finally get at skin. He presses his fingertips into the dimples low on Connor’s back, pulls back to breathe. He can see his own reflection in the mirror over Connor’s shoulder; it’s so strange that he closes his eyes, tucks his face into Connor’s neck, instead.

“Hey,” Connor says, “did I ever tell you congratulations?”

Jack huffs out a laugh. “Shut up,” he says, and bites at Connor’s neck, not sharp enough to mark. He’s… going second happened, and it’s fine. He’s not ready to have Connor thank him for it.

He slides his hands out of Connor’s shirt, down his thighs where they’re spread around Jack’s hips, slacks pulling taught, and slowly back up. His thumbs catch on the inside of his thighs, and Connor twitches, bites his lip.

“Can I?” Jack asks, and reaches for his belt. Connor nods, a little frantically.

It’s nothing fancy—they don’t have the time and the space for much—but Jack gets his belt open, works open his slacks. Kisses him again when he cups Connor through his boxers.

They don’t have lube, but Jack spits into his hand, and it’s been a while with another guy—everyone knows who he is now, at school—but it’s not like he’s forgotten how. Connor likes smooth, long strokes, it turns out, and he kisses Jack until he can’t, breathing too hard for their lips to meet, and even then he keeps their foreheads tipped together, one hand anchored in Jack’s hair.

He makes a little sound when he comes into one of Jack’s cupped palms, a gasp or a sigh, maybe, something with a whine on the end. Jack might have to hear it again to know for sure, and he knows that this is a one off, he _knows,_ but he doesn’t hate that idea, anyway.

There’s a box of tissues on the counter next to Connor. Jack wipes his hand a little carelessly, drops the balled up tissue somewhere near the wastebasket on the floor.

Connor trembles a little after, sensitive and breathless, and Jack’s not about to whisper sweet nothings in his ear or anything but he’s still fucking hard in his dress pants and so when Connor kisses him again he doesn’t exactly push him away.

Connor doesn’t bother to undress him, either, just fumbles at his belt buckle, at his fly, and Jack sighs when Connor touches him a little tentatively, bare skin catching almost unpleasantly before Jack reaches for his wrist and licks his palm.

It’s a little gross to do that, maybe, but Connor doesn’t seem to mind too much, because when he drops his hand again, he sets his teeth into Jack’s throat.

“Connor,” Jack hisses, because they may have already been drafted but neither of them are leaving right away and there’s sure as shit going to be cameras around still tomorrow.

Connor gentles his mouth, twists his wrist. Jack can feel the orgasm building, hips twitching forward and hands braced none-to-gently on Connor’s solid thighs.

And that’s when the door to the room slams shut.

Jack freezes. Connor, the bastard, doesn’t.

“Davo?” Dylan calls through the door, and Jack tries not to fucking breathe loudly enough that Dylan might hear him, but he’s about to fucking come and it’s harder than it should be. The ambient noise of the overhead fan must help, at least a little.

Connor bites Jack’s lip, then pulls back. Calls, “I’m just gonna take a shower,” and then he fucking pushes Jack away, slides off the counter to turn the water in the shower on.

Which, like, Jack appreciates the cover, or whatever, but he’s still gonna fucking kill him.

It’s Jack who gets pushed up against the wall this time, and Connor kisses him again, just once, and says, “quiet,” like Jack doesn’t already fucking know. It only takes him a few strokes to come, once Connor touches him again. He’s never been so fucking quiet in his life. Jack’s half surprised that he doesn’t bite through his own lip.

Connor steps back. “Get dressed,” he says, and then takes off his own shirt.

“What—” Jack says, but Connor just raises his eyebrows and throws his undershirt on the floor and wraps a towel around his waist over his pants as if Jack hasn’t already seen his dick today, and so Jack rolls his eyes and does his belt back up and reaches for his suit jacket.

“How am I supposed to explain this to Stromer,” Jack hisses at him, and Connor steps out of his dress pants and then sticks his head under the running water like a fucking maniac.

Jack despairs. He may have preferred being a drunken mistake.

“Stromer,” Connor calls, and then cracks the door wide enough to poke his head out. “Can you go get ice?”

Dylan says something, probably nothing nice, and Connor says, “come on, dude, I’m, like, naked and dripping wet.”

Stromer grumbles something else, but a second later the door opens, closes again.

Connor fishes Jack’s tie off the floor, loops it around his neck. Gives him a half smile.

“Sorry,” he says, and then he shoves Jack out the door, too.

…

Jack runs into Dylan on the way back to his room. Dylan’s carrying a full ice bucket. Jack may or may not have a hickey on his neck.

“Hey, dude,” Dylan says, oblivious as ever. “Party in our room tonight.”

“Sweet,” Jack says, and does not think about what just happened in their room and does not blush. “I’ll be there.”

…

Connor’s playing the good host, or something, preoccupied with all the other people in his room, and he won’t look at Jack.

Jack doesn’t care, except how it’s giving him flashbacks to this morning. He wonders a little idly if it would have been better if things were awkward because they didn’t have sex, rather than things being awkward because they did.

But. Too late now.

He finishes his drink. This time when he leaves, Hanny comes with him and he doesn’t have to take anybody’s shoes off and he doesn’t get kissed.

He still messages Davey, though. Just something mundane, to take his mind off things.

…

He wavers for a while before deciding to sign with the Sabres. There’s a big part of him that wants to play for BU, still, wants to go for the championship and stick with his boys and yeah, okay, wants to not compete for the Calder with Connor McDavid.

They left Florida without seeing each other again. Jack doesn’t have his number, and that’s fine, because he wouldn’t use it, anyway.

Seeing that Connor signed his ELC doesn’t have any bearing on Jack signing his.

Or. Well. Not much of one, at least.

At the end of the day, the NHL is it for him. It’s his dream. It’s his chance to prove himself. It’s… it has nothing to do with Connor.

…

_John: ugh_

_Davey: ??_

_John: Travelling a lot for my job_

_John: Starting to wear me down_

_John: Like everybody said it would be a lot when I took this position but it’s… a lot haha_

_Davey: I get that_

_Davey: I’m starting to travel more, too._

_Davey: time zones are killing me_

_John: If I never have to go to another airport it will be too soon_

_Davey: do you get to go cool places at least?_

_John: depends on the trip I guess. Sometimes, but then sometimes I have to go to Canada so…_

_Davey: haha very funny_

_Davey: maybe you need a vacation?_

_John: I don’t exactly get vacations. I mean I have days off now and then but I’m not really in a position to just take off whenever I feel like it_

_Davey: You sound important lol_

_John: Nah not really but I’m in sort of a high pressure line of work and we do a lot of late nights, long hours, a lot of travel like I said. And I’m one of the youngest guys here and I’m sort of being groomed to take over more responsibility in a couple of years I guess? So it just doesn’t look good if I’m not at 100% all the time_

_Davey: sounds stressful_

_John: I like the work a lot but yeah I guess it can be. I guess all jobs have good and bad sides, right?_

_Davey: yeah… like I’m good at my job and I like it but I have to work with people a lot too and that’s not really my strong suit_

_John: I like most people but they don’t always like me_

_Davey: I find that hard to believe : )_

_John: I guess I’m sort of loud and blunt and that can rub people the wrong way. Idk I get it and it’s obviously not something I can really change but I’m trying to be better. I bet you’re just really nice and polite like all the other Canadians I’ve met lol_

_Davey: I guess you could say that… most people say boring haha_

_John: I don’t think you’re boring_

_John: don’t take this the wrong way but I probably wouldn’t be talking to you still if you were_

_Davey: is that the blunt part? Lol I’m just joking. Yeah, that does actually make me feel better._

_John: plus you’re almost always wrong about hockey and it’s fun to argue about so…_

_Davey: okay that doesn’t make me feel better_

…

Jack feels for Connor when he breaks his collarbone, obviously he does.

But. His first thought is, _maybe this means I’ll win the Calder._

And his second is, _if that’s the only reason, then I don’t want it anyway._

They don’t even play each other, the first time their teams meet, because Connor’s still on IR. That certainly doesn’t stop the questions from coming. It doesn’t stop Jack from remembering the way Connor’s mouth felt on his neck, back in June, or from wondering if it will ever happen again.

Unfortunately.

…

_Davey: I know this is really personal but have you ever seen a therapist?_

_John: no_

_John: but I know people who have I guess_

_Davey: I used to see one when I was a kid_

_Davey: at the time I was more seriously into sports and I would get in my head a lot and it helped sometimes with that mental aspect of things? Idk I’m having kind of a challenging time at work right now with the same sort of thing and I feel like I’m underperforming and just disappointing a lot of people and I had to take an unrelated medical leave of absence but there’s just a lot going on_

_John: everything okay? I guess maybe that’s a dumb question lol_

_Davey: no it’s not dumb… not really but I do think things will get better. Unfortunately the only thing that can help is time and I don’t have a lot of that haha… or a lot of patience_

_John: if you think seeing a therapist would help then I guess go for it? Like I said I never have but you’d probably know better anyway_

_Davey: yeah_

_Davey: I worry because I don’t think the guys at work would handle it that well and we work so closely together all the time that they would probably find out even if I tried to hide it… I think it could seriously impact my job performance if they do and that’s the last thing I want_

_John: that’s shitty_

_John: I mean I know people like that and tbh it might be the same at my place… kind of a macho old-school attitude around here. But it’s still shitty._

_Davey: yeah. Idk. Haven’t really decided yet. Talking to you helps, though._

_John: I’m glad_

_John: let me know what you decide_

…

Connor personally fucking dominates the first game they do play against each other on NHL ice, which pretty much eliminates any of the last traces of goodwill Jack had towards him after they—stupidly—hooked up.

Like, they talked in June and they fucked in June and they haven’t done either since. He doesn’t really plan to do either in the future. It was fine, with Connor. A little gratifying to know that Connor had found him hot, maybe, but not, like, the most earth-shattering sexual experience of his life, or anything.

In fact, if it hadn’t been with Connor, and if he hadn’t done the weirdest fucking walk of shame afterward, he probably wouldn’t even still be thinking about it at all.

The point is that it’s over. Whatever _it_ was to begin with.

…

_John: So there’s this guy at work_

_John: it’s this whole big thing and it’s kind of fucked but basically he was the one they wanted for my job and he ended up in a different branch but is still in the company. And literally everybody knew that they only offered me the position because he went somewhere else, including both of us_

_Davey: that sounds awkward_

_John: yeah. We don’t see each other that much but we have a few times a year that we do with business trips and stuff and it’s always just really weird_

_Davey: is he a dick?_

_John: no, that’s kind of the problem lol. Like, okay, I’m good at my job, I’m performing up to standard and everything and I feel like people know that. Except I can never just hear unbiased feedback on my job performance without everybody talking about how much better this guy is. Every. Single. Time. And it’s so fucking frustrating because the problem isn’t that I’m not doing a good job, it’s just that I’m not him and he’s doing better and it makes me really want to hate him and that makes me feel even worse because I KNOW it’s petty and he’s actually a pretty nice guy and, like, it’s not his fault either?_

_Davey: I don’t think it’s wrong to feel that way_

_Davey: we all want to be successful without being compared to other people and I’m sure you’re more than good enough at your job to warrant that_

_John: thanks. Sorry. I just saw him so it came up again haha and I always sort of think people will get over it but they never really do_

_Davey: was it bad?_

_John: went as expected. Second verse same as the first; he obviously came out on top_

_Davey: Sucks. Sorry I can’t make things better_

_John: didn’t really think you could but it’s obviously not the sort of thing I can go to my other coworkers with so thanks for listening_

_Davey: anytime dude._

…

It’s an honor to be named to the World Cup roster, obviously, even if Jack still sort of objects to this weird made-up team on principle.

He’s not having the season that he wanted to have. He’s certainly not going to win the Calder, and even if Connor doesn’t, either, everybody knows that it’s only because he missed half of the season.

Jack likes his team more than he thought he might; Buffalo’s growing on him.

He just doesn’t think he’s growing on Buffalo.

“You gonna be okay?” Matt asks him when the initial roster is published, because his name is next to Connor’s.

“Yeah,” Jack says, because he will be, because he’s going to have to be.

Matt claps him on the shoulder. He tries to understand, Jack has to give him that. It’s not really his fault that he can’t.

…

_Davey: don’t hate me_

_John: ???_

_Davey: you know how you were talking about that guy who always beats you at work or whatever?_

_John: yeah_

_Davey: I think I’m that guy_

_John: um pretty sure we don’t work at the same place haha_

_Davey: No I mean with someone else_

_John: …_

_Davey: oh, you were kidding. Sorry._

_John: so everyone at work treats you like the second coming of Christ? We maybe can’t be friends anymore_

_John: that was a joke too, just fyi_

_Davey: sort of I guess? I kinda wish they didn’t because it doesn’t exactly make me popular around the office, you know? But there’s one of my coworkers in particular and he’s so so good at his job but he historically has been passed over in favor of me a lot_

_Davey: and I just don’t know what to do about it because we both see it happening and on the one hand I’m proud of my accomplishments and I don’t want to apologize for them but on the other hand I know it’s not fair to him and I hate it_

_John: It’s not your fault if he’s failing_

_Davey: he’s not failing though… he’s just not succeeding at the same rate I guess? I don’t know how to explain it but trust me he’s more than good enough that everybody knows basically that if I wasn’t there he would be getting so much recognition. I’m literally the only thing holding him back. And idk I guess I thought maybe you would have a different perspective on it?_

_Davey: sorry that came across ruder than I meant it to :/_

_John: I know what you mean lol… I guess I just don’t see that you can do much about it. Like… unless you’re underqualified and are still getting the promotions or whatever over him and it doesn’t sound like you are, then that’s just the way it is sometimes, you know?_

_John: believe me I fucking know how much that sucks… and it’s not always fair but if he’s reasonable at all he’ll know that too_

_Davey: I guess… I just know he resents me for it and I don’t blame him because I would, too, but that part sucks too because he’s really cool and probably we could be friends if he didn’t hate me_

_John: he’s missing out : )_

_Davey: thanks… we’re going to have to work on a really big project together soon so I’m worried it’s going to screw that up and I don’t think either one of us wants that_

_John: maybe you should just talk to him then. If he knows how much you respect him and his work then at the very least he’ll know you value his contributions even if nobody else does… and if he doesn’t want to listen then you’ll know for sure he’s a dick lol_

_Davey: That’s not a bad idea… thanks I knew you would have a suggestion : )_

_…_

Jack goes to Vegas for the NHL awards because he’s invited. He’s technically one of the Calder finalists, even if everybody knows he’s going to lose.

But he goes. He puts on his suit and he pastes on whatever approximation of a smile he can muster and he talks to the media and he signs a few autographs.

His seat for the ceremony—maybe because they’re up for the same award, maybe because neither of them brought a guest, maybe just so the cameras have a better view of them both—is right next to Connor’s.

He’s already sitting when Jack gets to his seat, hair carefully combed, fingers twisted up in his lap. He didn’t look this nervous at the draft, but his eyes still have the same startled-deer look around the edges.

“Hi,” he says softly, when Jack collapses down next to him.

There are cameras everywhere. It’s not the only reason that Jack says hi back—he was raised by civilized human people—but it does make him feel self-conscious about it, like he can feel the millions of interested eyes.

“You had a really great season,” Connor says earnestly.

Saying _no I didn’t_ feels a little hollow, because he’s here, after all, or like he would be fishing for compliments, or something, even if it is how he feels. Saying, “Thanks, you too,” seems like the safe option, so that’s what he says.

“Except for,” Connor says, and shrugs. He means the injury.

“Yeah, that sucked, man. Not your fault, though, right?”

Connor is still holding his arms tight to his side like he doesn’t want to risk touching. A year ago he did that at the hockey game in Chicago, and a few weeks later he had his hand down Jack’s pants. It’s like he only has two modes, or something. “I guess,” he says. “It did suck. I mean, I didn’t really say that to people, but it hurt and I couldn’t play for so long, and…”

Jack half wonders if he’s drunk, because the last time Connor talked to him like this—told him the truth like this—he was. But he probably wouldn’t risk that, being drunk underage on camera like that. Maybe he just remembers that he told Jack this sort of thing before and knows Jack will keep his secret. Maybe he just isn’t as good at hiding his emotions as everyone seems to think he is.

Jack should probably say something, because he’s been staring, but what he wants to say is, _and you’re going to lose the Calder because you got injured, and I’m going to lose it because I’m not you._

“Anyway,” Connor says. “I had a lot of free time and I watched some of your games. Like I said. You had a really great season.”

Jack feels his own mouth drop open. Telling a guy he had a great season, that’s a platitude, small talk, just something to say. He has a general idea of how most guys’ seasons were, and he’d lie to even the ones who struggled, probably. It’s just what’s done.

Except for Connor McDavid, apparently, who means that he actually watched Jack play and believes what he’s saying.

The lights dim.

“Good luck,” Connor whispers, and their knees touch for the whole ceremony.

…

Neither of them win the Calder. All things considered, it’s probably for the best.

…

Jack’s already in his pajama pants when the knock comes at the door.

It’s not that late—sure, he’s in Vegas, but he’s also underage and came out alone for just the night and when he wants to party, he’ll do it with his friends back in Boston—but he didn’t order room service and it’s probably a mistake anyway and he’s tempted to ignore it and just go to bed.

Only then the person knocks again, so he drags himself to the door to look through the peephole.

Connor’s dressed down, too, a t-shirt and sweatpants. Jack’s not surprised that they’re in the same hotel, because the NHL put them both up.

“Hi,” he says a little cautiously when he opens the door.

“Hi,” Connor says. He doesn’t look too upset—at least, not that Jack can tell, though he probably wouldn’t be able to either way because it’s not like they’re close enough that Jack can really read him—but Jack wonders if he will be, when it sinks in. Losing wasn’t a foregone conclusion for him like it was for Jack.

Losing’s not something he’s used to.

“Are you busy?” Connor asks him.

Jack looks down at his flannel pants, then, a little stupidly, over his shoulder into the empty room where his suitcase is still packed.

“Do you… roommate?” Connor says after a moment, though Jack’s not sure who he thinks would be here with him.

“Why, worried I might have to smuggle you out of the bathroom?” Jack says before he can stop himself.

Connor blushes. It’s a little fascinating, because Jack’s only seen him this flushed twice, once when they were having sex and once when they weren’t because he was plastered.

“That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about?” Connor says cautiously, “only if you want.”

Jack doesn’t want, really, but he’s not exactly going to slam the door in Connor’s face, so he says, “okay, I guess,” and lets Connor come inside.

“Um,” Connor says, and Jack sits back down on the bed, watches Connor twist the hem of his t-shirt up in his hands. “I guess I just wanted to… we have to play together at the World Cup? And I know that it’s already going to be a story because it always seems to be a story with us but I just wanted to make sure that, you know, in the locker room and on the team that it wouldn’t actually be… weird.”

“I’m not being weird,” Jack says slowly, because he pretty honestly feels like he’s being as normal as can be expected, “I mean, you’re being kind of weird, I’m not going to lie, but, like, I’m fine.”

“I’m not being…” Connor says, and then looks down where his shirt is all wrinkled up where he’s been worrying at it, and seems to re-evaluate. It looks like it takes a lot of work for him to unclench his hands and hold them at his sides normally. “The sex thing, I mean, that was… supposed to make things not weird, right? But then you didn’t talk to me for, like, a year and I figured that meant things were still sort of weird.”

Jack sighs. “I mean, we’re not really friends, you know? And you didn’t talk to me either.”

Connor looks away. “Yeah, I know we’re not friends. And I’m sorry about the bathroom thing. I just…”

“Didn’t want Dylan to know.”

“Neither did you,” Connor says slowly. “And besides. I couldn’t talk to you. I don’t have your number.”

“I don’t have yours, either,” Jack says, exasperated. “It wasn’t like… me trying to be rude to you. We hooked up, and it was fine, but I don’t exactly send thank you texts to all the people I hook up with, you know? If you were that torn up about it, you could have called. Stromer has my number. I wouldn’t have, like, hung up on you, or anything.”

“Fine!” Connor says, and he’s still flushed, but Jack’s pretty sure that it’s because he’s pissed off, this time. It probably makes Jack kind of a dick that he’s having fun riling Connor up, but it’s also kind of nice to know there’s a real boy under all that polite Canadian nonsense. “The next time we hook up, I’ll call you afterward, okay?”

Jack leans back on his elbows, feels a smile spread over his own face in spite of himself. “The next time?” He asks.

Connor blushes redder again and then, a little surprisingly, squares his shoulders. “You might be embarrassed by it, but we both already know that you liked it. So. Unless you think it’s going to make things weird, or something.”

Jack loves that Connor thinks it’s going to work, goading him into it.

“Connor, honey,” he says, and grins again, “if you want me, you can just admit it.”

Connor steps closer, and Jack spreads his thighs to let him. He’s towering over Jack like this, standing in front of him where he’s still reclining on the bed, but that’s okay. If Connor wants this, he’s going to have to come to Jack.

“I’m not scared to admit it,” Connor says, “not like you are.”

“I’m not scared,” Jack scoffs, and realizes in the next second that it’s just what Connor wanted him to say.

“Prove it,” Connor says, and Jack shifts his weight to free one of his arms, uses it to pull Connor in by the waistband of his sweats. They’re precarious, hanging off Connor’s hips a little too low, especially with Jack tugging at them.

Not like he minds.

It doesn’t matter, though, because Connor comes to him easily, half falls onto the bed and catches himself with arms on either side of Jack’s waist. “I’m not scared to want you,” Jack says, and isn’t surprised when Connor kisses him. It’s been a year and they’ve only done this once, but it’s like his body still remembers this, how to move against Connor’s, the feel of his lips and the way he trembles when Jack sucks under his ear.  

Connor pulls back, breathing too hard for what they’ve been doing. “But you don’t want to, either,” he says, “want me, I mean.”

“Neither do you,” Jack says, and pulls him back in.

It’s not any more careful than it was before, really. When Connor’s arms start to tremble, still holding himself up, Jack twists, rolls onto his side and topples Connor over with him. He doesn’t bother to pull Connor’s sweats down, just dips his hand inside.

Connor’s not wearing underwear. “Seriously?” Jack pulls back to pant, when he discovers this, and he likes the way Connor blushes. “You sure you just came to talk?” Jack teases, and Connor pushes at Jack’s sleep pants a little defiantly.

He is wearing underwear, and it takes some very ungraceful wiggling to get himself untangled from all the fabric where it gets caught around his thighs.

He’s naked, abruptly, just like that, and Connor’s fully dressed; the contrast is almost unpleasant. Maybe it’s because he still feels like Connor might shove him away again at any moment, and like this, he’s vulnerable.

“You too, come on,” Jack says, and Connor obediently sits up to strip his shirt off, pushes at his sweatpants until he can kick them to the floor.

Last time, they both got off still wearing dress clothes. When their bare chests meet, Jack shudders.

He rolls them again, pins Connor down to the bed, and Connor could probably toss him off if he wanted to, but he doesn’t fight it. Jack likes him a little pliant, licks into his mouth and grinds down into the cut of his hip. It’s not going to take him long to come, probably, and he kind of wants to do it just like this, across Connor’s abs with the little, desperate sounds he’s making echoing in Jack’s ears.

“Can you come like this,” Jack says, pulls back far enough to look into Connor’s face. It’s screwed up a little, his eyes closed and his mouth red and bitten, and it sends a jolt through Jack. It feels a little dirty, rutting into him like this, but it’s getting him off, too.

“I don’t…” Connor says after a minute. “You can, if you want.”

Jack takes him at his word, doubles down and bites at his jaw and moans when Connor starts rolling his hips up, too, as best he can laid out on his back like this. Jack drops his head when he comes, bites off his, “fuck,” in the middle of the word and rests his forehead on Connor’s clavicle.

Connor doesn’t let him have long, hips twitching and splattered with Jack’s come. “Come on,” he says, and Jack rolls off him, takes him in hand.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, but he doesn’t mind getting Connor off, remembers just how he likes it and wants to watch the way it plays across his face, anyway.

Connor doesn’t last much longer, either. He makes the same sound as the first time, when he comes.

Jack falls back into the mattress, closes his eyes. After a moment, Connor shifts and sits up, reaches over Jack for the box of tissues on the nightstand and wipes at his stomach, his chest. He doesn’t help Jack, but he does drop a clean tissue onto his chest, and Jack swipes a little halfheartedly at what’s on his fingers. He needs to shower, anyway.

“I didn’t come here for… this,” Connor says quietly, after a moment. “I know you said… but I really did just want to talk.”

Jack turns his head to look, and their faces are closer than he would have thought. Connor’s so earnest it almost makes Jack angry, like it’s somehow his job now to make sure nothing’s going to shatter Connor’s perfect world. He resents the responsibility a little.

“About the World Cup,” he clarifies.

“About… yeah, that, mostly,” Connor says. “Like I said, I don’t want things to be weird. And they were after the first time, so I didn’t really want to do this again, to be honest. I mean. I don’t regret it, but. I probably shouldn’t have.”

Jack wishes he could be offended. Mostly, he’s equally aware of how fucking stupid this probably was. A one-off is just that. Two times… that’s something different. It can’t be an accident, after the second time.

“Well.” Jack says, because there’s nothing else to say, really. “It won’t be weird. On the ice, it’s just hockey, right? And off… there will be a ton of other people to hang out with. Guys we probably would both rather be with, anyway. And if we’re weird, which I don’t think we will be, but if we are, then everybody will just assume it’s because… whatever, I can’t handle being around you because of the draft, or something.”

“Maybe they’ll think I’m threatened by you,” Connor offers, and pushes up on one elbow.

Jack snorts. “I don’t think so.”

“I meant what I said before, you know,” Connor says, and his brow creases a little. “I watched you play. I, uh… I really liked watching you play. I’m excited to be on the same team as you, for once. I think we’re going to have a good tournament.”

“You will,” Jack agrees, “and I’ll try my best to keep up.”

Connor frowns harder. “Why do you do that?” he asks. “I know you know how good you are. That’s not ego. Is it just me?”

“Is what you,” Jack says, and looks away.

“You just don’t want to take a compliment from me,” Connor says, “and I think that’s dumb. I’m not saying it to be nice. I wouldn’t… maybe this sounds bad, but I wouldn’t do that. I mean it. I think you’re a really amazing player.”

Something like embarrassment washes over Jack. He can feel his own face flush and it’s so overwhelming that his only option is to reach over and shove at Connor until he loses his balance and falls flat back onto the bed again. But he grits out a, “thanks,” because… what else is there to say, really? They do have to play for the same team. They do have to learn to get along.

Connor smiles up a little faintly at nothing in particular. Jack regards him for a long moment, then fishes his phone off the nightstand, thumbs it open, drops it onto Connor’s chest.

“You have to call me after this time, remember?” Jack says when Connor startles at it. “No more of this ‘I don’t have your number’ bullshit.”

Connor types in his number very slowly. When he hands back Jack’s phone, he’s typed in his name matter-of-factly, _Connor McDavid,_ no embellishments.

“I still don’t have your number,” he points out. “You’re going to have to call me, now.”

Jack makes a show of typing out a text message, turns the screen around to show Connor that it sent.

Connor bites his lips, stands up slowly. “Well,” he says. “Since we worked that out.”

Jack laughs at him for the understatement, a little blatantly, but Connor doesn’t look offended, just pulls back on his sweatpants and T-shirt and then looks at the floor. “This was fun,” he offers, and Jack laughs again.

“This is not happening in September.”

“No, definitely not,” Connor agrees. “That would be… weird, probably. And we’re not going to be weird about this.”

“For sure,” Jack says, and he trusts that Connor can find his way to the door because he doesn’t really want to put on pants to walk him there. “No weirdness. Just hockey.”

“Right,” Connor says, and his hands flutter for a moment like he’s not sure whether he should shake Jack’s hand or wave at him or do something else. In the end, he just shoves them into his pockets. “Well. Goodnight.”

“Night,” Jack says to Connor’s back, and then the door closes behind him and Jack flops back and closes his eyes. “Holy shit,” he says.

…

_Jack: You better work hard if you’re gonna keep up with me in September_

_Connor: sorry, who is this?_

_Connor: just kidding. Same to you. Have a good summer._

…

_John: How was your weekend?_

_Davey: Good I think?_

_John: You don’t know? Lol_

_Davey: May have done something stupid. Can’t decide if I regret it._

_John: ??_

_Davey: I hooked up with a coworker? Not one I see very often. But still. Could be messy._

_John: ah_

_John: been there_

_John: as long as you’re on the same page like relationship wise and especially if you don’t work together day to day hopefully it will be okay_

_Davey: he definitely does not want a relationship with me_

_Davey: shit_

_Davey: can you forget that last part_

_John: …the he part?_

_Davey: Yeah sorry that’s not… people don’t know that_

_John: Well I mean I guess I can forget it but… I literally have no idea who you are? And I don’t care_

_John: so… I just mean I’m not going to tell anyone, obviously_

_Davey: Yeah no I know… I just got kinda freaked out right after I realized I sent that because like I said people don’t know and maybe this makes my family/friends sound like assholes and tbh I don’t know if they would care but… that’s 100% not something I’m ready to tell them and I might never be there_

_John: it’s okay… I guess in the interest of full disclosure… me too?_

_John: not all the time, I sleep with girls too but_

_John: yeah. And people on my end can’t know either_

_Davey: oh_

_Davey: that’s… well it’s not nice obviously because I know it can suck to hide but I’ve never had anybody I could tell before so I guess that part’s nice… anyway thanks for being cool_

_John: yeah_

_John: you too. That was kind of nerve-wracking tbh_

_John: haha don’t take this the wrong way but right now I’m kind of glad we’ve never met because I probably would never have told you otherwise_

…

“You’re being weird,” Jack informs him when Connor finally opens the door to his room. He’s still wearing his dumb TNA branded hat backward. He’s not in his jersey, at least; Jack doesn’t know if he could handle that ‘C’ staring him in the face right now.

“I’m not,” Connor says automatically, and Jack rolls his eyes and pushes his way inside.

“Aaron,” Connor says a little fretfully, as if Jack didn’t just see him leave for lunch. He wouldn’t have stopped by if he knew Ekblad would be here, too.

“He’s not here,” Jack says, “and you have to stop being weird, dude. You promised. Even Larks noticed.”

Connor seems to be having the same problem now as he’s been having since they all rolled up to the hotel, which is that he can’t look at Jack in the face but is somehow so obvious about the way he’s not looking that it’s all Jack can focus on.

He did keep his other promise, to his credit, although by the time he actually did call, Jack was drunk on a boat and Connor wanted to talk hockey.

_You played with Matthews before, right?_ Connor had texted, and Jack had sat up and said, “Holy shit,” and Hanny had actually deigned to take off his sunglasses to lift up his head and say, “what?”

“McDavid texted me?” Jack had said, and had typed back a little carefully, _yeah why_

_Watching game tape. There’s not much of him because he hasn’t played in the NHL yet_

“For what?” Hanny had said, and Jack had shrugged.

“World Cup, I guess?”

_Hes good dud but I can’t exatly rattle off his stats of the top of my head_

_Are you drunk?_

And Jack apparently hadn’t answered fast enough, so Connor had called him, said again when Jack had picked up, “Are you drunk?”

“It’s July,” Jack had informed him. “I went to training this morning already and now I’m on a boat and Hanny and I are gonna get drunk… or drunker, whatever, and if you want to talk about Auston’s hockey we can do it tomorrow.”

But they hadn’t talked about Auston’s hockey again, and now Connor is looking somewhere left of his head and is blinking a little too rapidly.

 “I’m…” Connor says, and Jack takes a step closer, half-hoping to shake him out of whatever weird Canadian fugue state this is. “Sorry,” he says, and drops his eyes. “I’m kind of in my head right now. It’s not you.”

“Except how it kinda is, because I’m the one you’re ignoring,” Jack says, and Connor shakes his head.

“It’s not you,” he echoes again, a little hollowly.

Jack claps his hands on Connor’s shoulders, friendly. He’s no expert, but he thinks Connor feels kinda tense, like he maybe needs a massage or some really good weed, or something.

“Are you always this high strung?” Jack asks. “No offense, or anything, but you’re super tense, dude.”

“I, uh…” Connor says, and almost laughs. He still isn’t looking up. “Kind of? I mean. It’s usually not this bad, and I’m trying to… it really isn’t you, I promise.”

“Well,” Jack says, in what he hopes is a reasonable tone, because what he really wants to say is _snap out of it._ “Is it, like. Can I help, or something?”

He does look at Jack then, and Jack almost wishes he hadn’t. There’s always something around his eyes that’s a little vulnerable, but he looks truly helpless, suddenly.

“It’s just a lot,” he says, all in a rush, “and I know I should have known and it’s stupid that I didn’t but this team is so jumbled together and no offense but I kind of always thought I’d be playing for Canada at tournaments like this? And now they gave me the Captaincy and I’m not trying to say I don’t want it or anything, I mean, it’s an honor, obviously, but it’s this whole big thing and I don’t… I feel like I’m being groomed for it, like for the regular season, too? And it’s just a lot and it’s all too soon and Aaron keeps trying to get me to, like, relax about it, but I don’t—”

“Woah,” Jack says, and shakes him a little, just gently, where he’s still holding onto his shoulders. There’s a bed behind him, hopefully Connor’s, and he steers him over, sits Connor down on the edge of it. “Okay, first of all… this is a bullshit team, right? I mean. That sounds bad, and obviously I never want to lose, but there is literally zero expectation. If we get out there and we score one goal, we’re already over-performing, right? I can score a goal for you, no problem. There. Problem solved.”

It startles a half smile out of him. It’s very small, but Jack will take it.

“Second, I’m no therapist or anything, but you seriously need to get, like, very stoned. Or laid.”

Connor flushes, looks away again. “I thought we weren’t… I thought we said not in September.”

And Jack hadn’t meant by _him,_ necessarily. But he can’t deny, now that Connor brought it up… He got, like, much hotter over the summer. Like, whatever. Jack’s seen him naked, and he’s not exactly blind.

Plus. He’s a good teammate. He’s just gonna help his Captain get into the right headspace for a game, that’s all. It’s just a buddies thing to do.

“Well, I mean,” Jack says reasonably, “If it was going to be weird, it already would be, right? And, like, you already said that the weirdness was not because of the sex.”

“It wasn’t.”

“So there you go,” Jack says. He goes to kneel; at the last moment, he snatches the hat from Connor’s head, slips it onto his own, backward. “So you just, like, relax, okay? Chill out. Everything’s fine.”

Connor can’t be too against the whole thing, because he shifts when Jack undoes his fly, helps push his jeans and boxers over his thighs. Even then, he starts, “Are you…” A little fretfully, hands hovering around his thighs, brushing over Jack’s shoulders when he settles himself close enough to mouth at Connor’s hip right below the hem of his shirt.

“Chill,” Jack says firmly, and when he licks at the head of Connor’s cock, he does go quiet, rests one hand a little tentatively on Jack’s shoulder, one on the back of his neck, threatening to upset the hat.

Jack’s no porn star, or anything, is a little out of practice, but it doesn’t take long for Connor to start making broken sounds in the back of his throat, hips twitching just this side of too hard. He must have been pretty tightly wound, Jack thinks, if a quick and dirty blowie from a teammate is really getting him off this quickly.

He bobs his head a few times, strokes with his hand and sucks a little harder and that’s it, really. He even swallows, less because he’s a gentleman and more because he doesn’t really want to deal with a suspicious stain on what may or may not be Aaron Ekblad’s bedspread.

Jack leans back on his heels, once Connor finally unclenches his fingers from the shoulder of Jack’s shirt.

“Aaron,” Connor says. Jack rolls his eyes, stands. The bulge in his pants is probably not super subtle, but then, he’s not sure that Connor has the right to be surprised by it at this point, anyway.

“Maybe don’t say someone else’s name when a dude’s just finished sucking you off,” Jack says drily, and Connor hastily reaches for his jeans so he can stand, himself.

“I just meant, I don’t know when he’s coming back,” Connor says a little sheepishly. “But I can…”

“Nah,” Jack says. He’s not eager to relive the last roommate debacle. “Another time, or whatever.”

Connor bites his lip. That probably goes against some Canadian code of chivalry, or something, but Jack’s already at the door.

“Hey,” he says, and at the last moment he pulls off the hat, Frisbees it back to Connor. “You’re gonna be fine, dude. See you at dinner.”

…

So the first time is just helping a teammate blow off some steam.

The times after that… are pretty much just sex, if Jack’s being honest. He’s running out of ways to rationalize it. Connor owes him one, so he blows Jack a little clumsily after they win their first game, and both of them are a little buzzed and very high on adrenaline and Connor has to take a call from Stromer before Jack can get him off. So then Jack owes him one, and he gets Connor off quickly—and very stupidly—behind the locked door of the single stall bathroom at the restaurant the team’s all eating at together.

And then they lose track, and besides, Ekblad leaves early with a concussion, which really, _really_ sucks for their team but also means that Connor suddenly has a room to himself.

So.

If they were better friends, Jack might say they were friends with benefits. They’re not friends, really, but Jack’s getting a little worried on that account, too. The last night of the tournament, they don’t even fool around. Auston’s off somewhere with Reilly, and good for him for bonding with his future teammates, or whatever, and Jack’s honestly too tired to get on his knees, even for Connor.

So they talk, instead, about how Connor half-wishes he’d been drafted a different year so that he could have gone to Toronto, instead, and about how Jack half-wishes that Connor had been drafted a different year, too. They talk about Taylor Hall and they talk about Stromer and they talk about the Olympics. And they don’t talk about how they’ve seen each other naked, and when Auston comes back, Connor nods and him and leaves, as quietly as he came, and Auston raises his eyebrows but doesn’t ask.

But, no. They’re not friends.

…

Jack’s the one who keeps the promise this time, to call after they hook up. Of course, this time, it’s because he’s staring down four to six weeks and Connor sent him a fairly nice text message about it.

Nobody can really understand, but somehow Connor McDavid comes closest. Jack just wishes that it wasn’t a recurring theme in his life.

Jack keeps thinking about what Connor had said to him in June, that he’d spent a lot of his own time injured watching Jack play.

He’s watching a lot of hockey, anyway, trying to keep up as best he can with his boot on.

A lot of those games may or may not include the Oilers.

It’s whatever.

…

_John: your Leafs look pretty good this year_

_John: unfortunately_

_Davey: lol been a long time coming bro_

_Davey: I’m actually super bummed Eichel’s out though, man I love to watch that kid play_

_John: haha I’m telling everybody in your city that you’re rooting for the wrong team_

_Davey: noooo not the team just him lol_

_Davey: I just think he’s underrated_

_John: He’s no McDavid_

_Davey: I fucking hate when people say that tbh_

_Davey: not to go off on you sorry but it’s just really dumb to me idk… like why would people expect him to be? Just sets him up for failure_

_Davey: and even McDavid isn’t “McDavid” every night, right? Sets everyone up for failure_

_John: wow_

_Davey: sorry_

_John: no, it’s all cool, I guess I just didn’t expect you to say that_

_John: it’s not what most people think_

_Davey: most people have no idea what it takes to be that guy night in and night out_

_John: you do?_

_Davey: I guess not exactly but I just think that everyone deserves to be evaluated on their own merits and comparisons like that are kind of my pet peeve I guess_

_John: I get that_

_John: I won’t say anything else bad about Eichel then  ; )_

_Davey: lol I thought we would be on the same page here! Aren’t you a BU fan?_

_John: Yeah_

_Davey: did you ever see him play there?_

_John: nah never had the chance_

…

“You okay?” Matt asks him over dinner. Jack doesn’t live with them, still, but he somehow winds up at their place for dinner more often than not when the team isn’t on the road.

“Yeah,” Jack says, because Matt probably thinks that it’s about the injury, and Jack can’t tell him that he can’t stop watching Connor McDavid play hockey, or that he can’t stop thinking about messaging some guy he’s literally never even seen a picture of, or that he almost had a heart attack last night when he thought that this guy had found out that he’s been lying this whole time.

And then he’d had to talk about himself in the third person the whole time, which had been harder than it probably should have been.

So Matt thinks it’s the injury, and Jack lets him think it.

…

Connor texts him after they play in December.

Sam’s out, somewhere, and Jack didn’t ask where he was going. When Connor asks to come over, Jack gives him his address.

He’s not really laboring under any delusions about why Connor wants to see him, this time. When he knocks, Jack takes him straight up to his bedroom.

Still. He’s a little taken aback when Connor says, “can I ask you a favor?”

He strips his shirt off before Jack gives him an answer.

“Sure?” Jack says, a little hesitantly. He’s never been asked for a sexual favor, really, besides ‘pull my hair,’ or, ‘yes, harder,’ or, ‘don’t touch me there.’

Connor bites his lip. “Can you fuck me?” He asks.

They’ve fucked exactly once, while Finland and Russia were playing and they just had to wait and see. They left the TV playing the game on mute, and Jack had pinned him to the bed and rode him and when they were finished, they both watched the end of the game naked and side by side.

“Are you…” Jack says, still trying to wrap his mind around the whole thing.

“I’m sure,” Connor says. “And I want… I don’t want it to be, like, gentle. I don’t know, I just… I know I can trust you to do that.”

Jack’s momentarily a little offended, because, “I’m not going to hurt you, Connor, Christ. Is that what you think of me, really?”

“I don’t want it to hurt,” Connor says a little haltingly, “I just need… I don’t know. I just need it to feel real.”

It’s not feigned, when Jack pushes him suddenly face first up against the wall, pressing him there with his whole body. Connor’s bare back is warm, even through Jack’s shirt, and it takes almost nothing to keep him pinned there.

Jack wonders if he’s gone too far. Connor’s cheek is against the wall and he’s breathing hard and there’s always been something about him that makes Jack think of a woodland creature, or something, but he’s never felt so much like a predator himself, either.

And then Connor sighs, closes his eyes and brings his arms up against the wall above his head, rests his forehead on them. He arches his back, pushes back into Jack. “Yeah,” he says, “like this.”

Jack breathes for a moment, considers. Connor’s team had lost, but in overtime, and he’d had a two point game. A better game than Jack, really, but even that doesn’t sting too much, because Jack’s happier to be playing than not but he’s not going to act like his ankle’s back to normal yet. Connor shouldn’t need to be punishing himself, if that’s what this is, but Jack’s not sure about that, either. It’s possible that he just wants it and doesn’t care that it’s Jack.

It’s possible that he does care that it’s Jack, but that Jack will never know why.

He steps back, slowly, trails his fingers down the length of Connor’s bare back. He has to go to his bathroom for lube and condoms, and when he gets back, Connor hasn’t moved at all. Jack’s a little fascinated by it, strips off and then presses up behind him again, bare torsos flush together. He makes Connor hold the condom.

Connor steps easily out of his pants when Jack pushes them down around his ankles, but he’s not an active participant either, really, tips his face back towards the wall and takes it easily when Jack slicks up his fingers and slips him one, then two.

He’s not trying to be precious about it, but he meant what he said; he doesn’t want to hurt Connor and he doesn’t know if this is his first time or his fortieth and he doesn’t care to ask.

Connor makes a small sound when Jack gives him a third finger, just a release of breath that sounds too loud in the quiet house. He hasn’t made any other sounds, and he’s not usually vocal, with Jack, but that’s unusual, too.

“Are you,” Jack asks, and Connor only hums, reaches back over his shoulder to offer Jack the condom.

It’s probably not ideal for Connor to do it like this after they played a game, standing and face first into the wall, but he’s hot and slick around Jack when he finally pushes in and he hadn’t wanted gentle, anyway.

Jack aims to please, snaps his hips in harder than he usually would and leaves fingerprint bruises on Connor’s hips and Connor still doesn’t say a word, just arches into it and takes it beautifully.

Jack gets close sooner than he probably should and doesn’t even bother to reach around. Connor’s biting into his own wrist, still silent, and so Jack sinks his teeth in, too, bites into the meat of his shoulder where his shirt will cover the bruise and comes, trembling.

Connor’s still hard when Jack pulls out. He leaves him there to toss the condom and by the time Jack looks back, he’s pushed himself off the wall finally, is just standing there, looking. His eyes are wet.

“Thanks,” he says, a little raspy, and he reaches for his shirt like Jack’s not going to…

“Jesus, dude,” Jack says, exasperated, and backs him into the same spot on his wall. “I’m gonna get you back, come on.”

There are red, dime-sized marks on Connor’s hips that Jack could match his spread fingers to exactly. He smooths over them, instead, drops to his knees. Connor’s still hard, at least. Jack doesn’t want to dwell on what it might feel like, if he wasn’t, after Jack had manhandled him like that.

He keeps it gentle this time, keeps his tongue wet and soft, and Connor doesn’t protest, either, just tips his head back and fists Jack’s hair where it’s too long on top and comes over his lips, after just a few strokes.

He still doesn’t speak, and Jack still can’t read him. After a moment, he pulls back, goes to the attached bathroom to wipe his face, and when Connor wanders in after him, they lock eyes in the mirror. Something in Connor’s face tells him that he still doesn’t want Jack to ask.

“Thanks,” Connor says again, eventually, “that was… that was what I wanted.”

“Well,” Jack says, and shrugs, because it’s none of his business in the end. They’re not dating. They’re not friends. They just fuck, sometimes, and apparently sometimes Connor wants to be pinned to the wall so he can cry through it, and that’s… that’s fine. “Happy to help, I guess.”

“I’m,” Connor starts, and then looks down. He’s still very, very naked, but then, so is Jack. “I’m okay, you know. I didn’t mean to freak you out, but I’m not… like you said, sometimes I just need to get laid, right?”

“I don’t know,” Jack says honestly, “Whatever works for you, man, I’m not judging.”

And, like, he’s not, but that doesn’t mean that he hasn’t noticed how weird Connor has been all night. He’s still trembling a little.

“I’ve got a curfew,” Connor says, a little apologetically, like Jack would have been expecting him to spend the night, or something. They’ve definitely never done that, not even when they were in the same hotel.

“You good to drive?” Jack asks, and Connor shakes his head.

“Uber,” he says.

They put their clothes back on in silence, and Connor calls for the car and they go downstairs to wait. “You looked good tonight,” Connor tells him earnestly, halfway back to his old self. “I couldn’t tell if your ankle is still bothering you.”

“It is,” Jack tells him, which he hasn’t admitted in so many words even to his teammates, though they can probably tell anyway. “But I’m playing again, so I don’t really care.”

Connor smiles at that, and Jack wonders, not for the first time, whether saying something like that would seem reasonable to somebody else. Most people would probably think he was stupid, playing through an injury like this.

The car pulls into his driveway.

“Thanks,” Connor tells him, and Jack wishes he would stop saying it. He zips his parka up unreasonably high for the short walk out to the driveway. “And I don’t just mean…”

“For the sex,” Jack says, though he doesn’t know what else there is to thank him for, really.

Connor shrugs. “See you soon,” he says.

…

_Davey: do you ever think about meeting up?_

_John: woah_

_John: do you mean us?_

_Davey: yes, of course_

_John: where is this coming from?_

_Davey: …I like talking to you and we’ve been doing this for, what, almost two years?_

_Davey: I talk about you to people like you’re one of my best friends_

_Davey: I don’t know it just seems stupid that we don’t know anything real about each other_

_John: we know enough_

_John: I came out to you_

_Davey: I know. Me too._

_John: I just think things are so good the way they are_

_John: my life is so crazy and my job is so crazy and you’re one of the things I look forward to every day_

_Davey: doesn’t that make you want to meet more?_

_John: What if we ruin something?_

_Davey: I don’t know_

_John: I don’t think I’m ready_

_Davey: Maybe it is dumb_

_Davey: I probably need to tell you some things about myself before we ever would_

_Davey: I don’t know, sorry, I’ve had a really weird week._

_John: I do think about it_

_John: about you, I mean. You should know that_

_Davey: Okay._

_John: I’m sorry_

_Davey: Don’t be sorry. I know it’s not realistic. We don’t even live in the same place. I just feel like… I miss you, but I’ve never met you_

_John: I know_

_John: believe me, I know_

…

Jack seeks him out at the All-Star game. Connor’s not surprised to see him, lets him into his room with a little quirk of a smile.

Connor kisses first, but there’s something a little halting about it, unsure in a way that he’s never been before. Jack gives him a minute to figure it out, or at least, he tries to, and then, frustrated, pulls back and guides him to the bed, instead.

“Can I just—” he starts, and Connor pushes his own jeans off and then lays back across the bed.

Jack goes to his knees, but it doesn’t take long for him to figure out that this isn’t really going to work, either.

“What, are you lying back and thinking of Canada?” Jack asks, and Connor, whose face had been all screwed up, and not in the good way that means he’s about to come, pushes himself up on his elbows.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly.

Jack stands. “If you’re not into this,” he says a little woodenly, “you can just say so. I’m not gonna, like, _make_ you get your dick sucked.”

Connor flushes, reaches for his jeans and pulls them hastily back up over his hips. “It’s not you,” he says almost sadly, “it’s… I don’t know. It’s dumb.”

“It can’t be that dumb,” Jack says, and sits down next to him on the mattress, nudges him with his shoulder. He’s wearing that vulnerable look that Jack hates, that makes Jack feel fucking responsible for him, somehow. “I have it on good authority that I suck very good dick, so there must be some reason for it, right?”

It’s meant to make Connor laugh, but it doesn’t work, really. He twists his hands in his lap, takes a deep breath. “I think I might have feelings for someone,” he says.

“We’re not exactly giving each other boxes of chocolates here, dude,” Jack says, but the joke rings hollow even to him, and Connor’s frown deepens. Jack clears his throat. “So I’m the other man, then.”

“Uh,” Connor says, “I don’t know. I told you it was dumb. It’s not, like, real, and I don’t know why I feel bad about it. But I do, kind of. Like I’m cheating, or something, even though I’m obviously not, because like I said, it’s not real.”

“I get it,” Jack says, and tries to believe it, and pats him on the thigh. They’re not even friends. He doesn’t know why he cares.

“I really do want to have sex with you,” Connor says, and drops his gaze to Jack’s lap for just a moment. When he raises it again, he’s wearing the same earnest look that Jack knows all too well. “I mean, I did coming here and I thought we could just… and it would feel normal. But. I don’t know. Once we started, I felt bad about it.”

“It’s fine,” Jack says, and stands. He’s only got about five feet until he’s out the door and away. “Like I said. I’m not going to make you.”

 “I know.”

“Well,” Jack says, and reaches for the door handle. “I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”

“I’m sorry,” Connor says again, so softly that Jack almost doesn’t hear him. There’s nothing else to say, really, and besides, he’s already out the door.

…

They do see each other again, maybe a little inevitably, relegated to what basically amounts to the kid’s table at the bar on the last night, because they’re all underage and hadn’t brought wives or girlfriends or kids. It’s him and Connor and Auston, too, at least at first, which helps with the awkwardness, at least at first.

And then Auston, maybe also a little inevitably, finds a pretty girl across the bar to talk to within about five minutes.

They sit in excruciating silence for about a minute and a half. One of the older guys drops by their table to deliver drinks and chirp them a little for not being able to get their own, and Jack doesn’t even mind because he needs the alcohol so badly.

“I really am sorry about last night,” Connor says, when they’re alone again. Jack tries very hard not to visibly wince. He already spent most of last night staring at the ceiling and thinking about it, much to his own embarrassment, and he’s not eager to relive it again.

“Don’t be. Like I said, it’s fine.”

“But I just really… things are so, I don’t know, weird, and this other, you know, person, it’s not anything—”

“Connor,” Jack interrupts. “No offense, but. I don’t really want to talk about it again?”

“Oh,” Connor says softly. “Yeah, right. Sorry.”

Jack bites his tongue so he doesn’t ask him to stop saying sorry for something he can’t help, for something Jack shouldn’t even care about. “I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he says instead, and leaves his drink and phone on the table and wanders back towards where he assumes the restrooms must be.

He splashes some water on his face, stares at himself in the mirror. This is why they should have never hooked up in the first place. Things got weird. Things were always going to get weird.

Connor’s still at the table when he musters the strength to go back out, sitting a little stiffly, color high in his face. He won’t look at Jack, and Jack can’t tell if it’s because of last night or because of something else he apparently managed to screw up in the five minutes that he was gone.

His phone buzzes, a text from Auston: _gonna head out bro, see you later_

He has another notification, too, a DM from Davey. Despite everything else, seeing it makes him smile, a little, and he types out a quick reply.

Connor looks down at his own phone, frowns deeper. He says something, right as a new message from Davey comes in.

“Sorry,” Jack says, “what was that?”

Connor looks between Jack and his phone and then says, as if he’s determined to stay casual, “who is that?”

“Uh,” Jack says, “just an old friend.”

“College?”

“No,” Jack says slowly, “just, from before the draft. Why?”

“Making conversation,” Connor says stiffly. “I have to go.”

He’s got half of his drink left and Jack doesn’t know what he did wrong, exactly, but it’s clear that it was something.

“Okay,” he says, but Connor’s already halfway out the door. “See you around, I guess.”

…

Davey doesn’t message him for three weeks, after that. Jack tries not to put too much stock into it, except to figure that it’s just about consistent with the way the rest of his life is going, right now.

When he does finally reply to one of Jack’s many—too many—messages, it’s just, _sorry, things got really crazy with work suddenly._

Jack’s so fucking soft for him that he can’t even hold a grudge.

…

Connor and Davey text him within five minutes of each other, the night he scores his 100th point, and say almost the same thing.

Jack dashes out a quick, _thanks,_ to Connor, because things might be weird and it feels a little hollow, partly because they lost anyway and partly because Connor hit that milestone ages ago, his own injury notwithstanding, but ignoring him would be rude, probably, and then a line of question marks to Davey.

_Sorry I meant for your boy Eichel,_ Davey sends back. _Congrats on the 100 points to him lol I typed too fast_

Jack bites back his grin, writes, _sounds more like he’s your boy at this point haha. Should I be jealous?_

It’s too far, probably. They’ve never… they flirt, a little, sometimes. Mostly they just talk. They’ve never seriously considered meeting, even, and Jack’s never said anything like this, that makes it clear that he’s starting to think a little dangerously, starting to think of this as something real.

_Well he is my type…_

_Funny,_ Jack says, _I’ve been told I kinda look like him_

_No kidding? Maybe you should send me a picture. For proof._

And Jack… they’ve never… _maybe,_ he writes back. _I’ll think about it_

…

Jack does send a picture, in the end, even though he carefully crops his face out. It’s after his workout and he changes into unbranded shorts and keeps his shirt off because… well, because that’s why Davey asked, probably.

_Wow_ , he gets back after a few nervous minutes. _I know you said you used to play hockey but… wow_

And then another: _and btw yes the resemblance is striking… at least from the neck down ; )_

On his way to the rink, Jack gets one back, also faceless, a slim guy in a nice looking navy suit. _Headed to work,_ Davey sends.

Jack saves the photo carefully, stares for a few minutes. In the picture, Davey has one hand in his pocket, but the one holding the phone looks broad and strong.

_You look nice,_ Jack sends back. _No wonder you’re so popular around the office._

…

It’s not shocking that the Sabres don’t make the playoffs.

It still stings. Jack spends a lot of time they day after they’re mathematically eliminated moodily texting Davey from behind his closed bedroom door and trying to ignore the way that the Oilers’ clinching is being not so subtly shoved in his face from across the fucking border.

He texts Connor congratulations, because it seems like the right thing to do. Connor doesn’t text back, which may be all for the best. Jack doesn’t really want to hear another ‘sorry for your loss,’ which Connor would probably say. He’s not really sure he wants to hear again how they would have made it if not for his ankle, because that doesn’t make him feel better, either.

He just needs to hate his life, for a little while. That’s all.

…

It’s the day after the Oilers fall out of the playoffs that Jack gets the text.

_Jack,_ Connor says, _I need to tell you something_

And then he gets it a second time, only it’s not from Connor.

_Jack,_ Davey says, and Jack just about has a heart attack. _I need to tell you something._

When the phone rings, Jack picks it up. He can’t… he doesn’t know why Connor’s calling, except that he does.

“Jack,” Connor starts a little cautiously.

“How long have you known?” Jack demands. He feels so stupid, suddenly.

“Not long. A few months, I guess.”

“You’ve known that it was me for months,” Jack repeats.

“I… I didn’t know the whole time, Jack, at first I just thought it was—”

“You’ve known that it was me for months,” Jack says again, louder.

Connor’s quiet for a long minute on the other end of the line. “Yeah,” he says finally.

Jack hangs up.

…

_Connor: I’m so sorry, Jack. Can we please at least talk about this?_

…

Jack’s back in Boston, and that’s good, probably, because he has things to distract him.

It’s also bad, probably, because his sister wears him down after a day and a half and he spends most of the night telling her the whole story a little drunkenly, and definitely, definitely not crying into her sweatpants where his head somehow wound up in her lap after beer three.

“I think you need to see him,” she says gently.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, and then makes her text Connor for him because he can’t bring himself to.

_I’ll be there at the end of the month for sponsorship shit. We can talk then._

Jack wakes up with a headache and a glass of water on his nightstand and a new text from Connor.

_Okay. Thank you._

…

Connor’s wearing the same blue suit pants that he was wearing in the picture he sent Jack.

Jack’s pretty certain of it, because he spent a long time last night once he checked into his hotel room staring at that picture. It seems obvious, now that he knows. He’s seen Connor wear that suit before. He’s experienced exactly what those hands can do, on and off the ice.

It all seems obvious in retrospect—the nickname, the schedule, the work talk. Not many guys Jack’s age are holding down high-stress jobs and talking about their coworkers, but then, Jack had just assumed that Davey was a few years older and had half liked it.

He let Connor pick the place, because he knows nothing about Toronto. It’s a nicer restaurant than Jack might have selected, and he feels underdressed in his jeans. When the hostess takes Jack back to where Connor’s already sitting, she gives him a little smile like she thinks it’s a date.

Jack obviously doesn’t tell her that it’s pretty much the opposite.

“Hi,” Connor says, when Jack sits across from him. He’s worrying at the hem of his napkin—it’s cloth, or Jack thinks it would probably already be a pile of torn scraps. Jack resents a little that Connor seems so nervous.

Connor’s had the upper hand here for so long. It doesn’t seem right that he’s acting as though Jack has it, now.

“I’m glad you came,” Connor says, so earnest that it makes Jack snap.

“My sister made me come.”

He feels bad about it afterwards, because Connor startles at his tone, sits back a little in his seat. “Well,” he says, “then thank your sister for me, I guess.”

Neither of them speak for a long moment. Someone comes by and puts bread on their table and Connor takes a piece and starts tearing at that, instead, and doesn’t even eat the pieces.

“How long did you know,” Jack says eventually. It’s probably not the most pressing question, but it feels that way.

“Not the whole time,” Connor says, as though that’s supposed to be reassuring. “It was… at the All-Star game? You left your phone on the table and I messaged you—or, well, John—and I saw it come through on your phone. And I didn’t really believe it, but then you wrote back and I got it right away and… yeah. I got really freaked out, to be honest. That’s why I stopped, for a few weeks.”

Not as long as Jack feared, then. After Connor rejected him, that last time, but before they sent the pictures.

“So why did you bother to start again,” Jack grits out. “You could have ghosted me and it would have sucked but I never had to know.”

“I don’t know,” Connor says to his plate. “Maybe it was selfish. I missed talking to you. You were… I don’t know. And if it were me, I would have wanted you to tell me. I probably waited too long, and I regretted that, too, but it was in season and I just wanted. Well. I figured you’d probably hate me after I told. I wanted to wait until that happened, too.”

“I don’t hate you,” Jack says, after a minute. “I was… I got really mad, at first. I’m not anymore, really. I’m just confused, still, I guess.”

“I was mad, too,” Connor says, “that’s why I was hoping if I gave you time… you might come around.”

“I just don’t… look, I know I lied too, okay? I know that makes me a hypocrite, probably, that I got upset about it. I know that.”

“But I lied twice, right?” Connor says, “once because I didn’t tell you who I really was, and then again because I didn’t tell you when I found out who you really were.”

“I guess.”

“And I’ve had longer, I guess,” Connor says. He’s gone through his piece of bread, is back to fiddling with his napkin. Jack hasn’t even cracked open his menu. He’s not sure they’re really here to eat.

“You wanted to talk,” Jack says, “I mean. What did you… what do you want to know?”

Jack only realizes that Connor hasn’t looked at him all night when he does, suddenly. “I guess I just… wanted to clarify some things,” he says slowly, “if nothing else. I mean. If you leave and you still hate me and you don’t want to talk again… that would suck, but I just wanted a chance to explain. And to apologize, that I waited to tell you.”

“I don’t hate you,” Jack says again, “I just… I don’t know. Maybe I haven’t decided yet. But I don’t hate you.”

He startles, when the waitress comes by, pulled out of it suddenly. The whole staff is so casual that Jack half wonders if Connor comes here often enough that they’ve gotten used to him, or if they don’t know, or if they just don’t care. She leaves again easily enough when Connor tells her they need a minute. Jack opens his menu, mostly for something to do.

Connor studies his menu, too, and doesn’t look up even when he says, “I know you told me some personal things. I just wanted… I would never tell. I haven’t.”

“Oh,” Jack says, because of all the things he’s thought about since Connor called him, that was never one. He never thought that Connor would do that. “I never even thought… yeah, thanks. That’s. I would never, either.”

“Thanks,” Connor says, softly.

He orders something, when the waitress comes back. Jack doesn’t hear what it is, and he still tells her that he wants the same. When she takes the menus away, Connor goes back to his napkin.

“I didn’t ever lie to you,” he says, “besides the obvious, I guess. But everything else, that was always… real.”

They talked almost every day for more than two years. Jack can’t even begin to recall everything that Davey had told him, everything that John had told Davey, except how everything he knew had just been a part of Davey, the whole person, and except how now everything he knows has rearranged itself too neatly to be part of Connor, too.

“Me neither, I guess,” Jack says, thinking back. They’d talked about each other more than he’d like to admit—the way he felt about Connor and the way Connor had felt about him, after they hooked up and before they went to the World Cup. And they’d talked about their hockey, too, about Jack Eichel and Connor McDavid and how it felt to watch them play.

Davey had always liked Eichel’s hockey, Jack remembers now. Apparently that means that Connor does, too, and Jack hates that it matters to him and hates that it feels more real like that, an anonymous Twitter message, than it ever had when Connor had told him the same to his face.

“I felt pretty dumb about it, actually,” Jack blurts suddenly. “Once you told me, it seemed so obvious. I mean… Davey? Come on.”

Connor cracks a smile. “Your handle was about Boston U hockey and I asked you to your face if you’d ever met Jack Eichel. I felt. Yeah, pretty stupid.”

Jack smiles at that, too. The whole situation is, objectively, pretty ridiculous. “I don’t think I would believe this if someone else told me this story,” he says. “Not that I’ve told… I mean, my sister, like I said. But she won’t tell. I almost told Hanny, after we hooked up at the draft. But I didn’t want him to laugh at me, and he definitely would have.”

“Dylan would be mad if he knew we hooked up while he was in the next room,” Connor admits. “I probably would have told him, otherwise.”

The waitress comes back with their plates, then—steaks and potatoes and something green that Jack doesn’t recognize.

They don’t talk while they eat, really, but it feels easier now. There’s still… Connor keeps looking at him a little hopefully, and Jack still doesn’t know what to tell him, doesn’t know where they go from here.

Connor pays. It’s embarrassing, but Jack lets it happen.

He walks Jack back to his hotel, too, even though it’s just a few blocks and Connor’s going to have to catch an Uber, either way.

Jack half wishes he wouldn’t. It’s a chilly night, and Jack’s much too tempted to give Connor his jacket.

“You said that you were mad, at first,” he blurts, when they’re waiting for a traffic light to turn. “And that you were confused. Were, like, past tense?”

Connor has his hands in his pockets, like he almost always does. His shoulders shoot up, tense, and Jack doesn’t think it’s meant to be a shrug.

“So what are you now?” Jack presses. They jog across the street when the light turns, pull up even with Jack’s hotel.

“Uh,” Connor says, and Jack doesn’t think the pink in his cheeks is from the chill in the air, “I was excited, after the first shock. I mean. I feel lucky, I guess.”

“Lucky,” Jack repeats, a little disbelieving.

“I, um,” Connor says, and he definitely does shrug, this time. “Doesn’t everybody want the person they’re falling for to be the same person they’re having really good sex with?”

Jack knows that he should focus on the _falling for_ part. Instead, he says, “really good?”

Connor blushes redder. “It was… yeah, at least for me. I don’t know if you—”

“Yeah, I,” Jack says, and feels his own face heat up, too. It’s so stupid. “Yeah.”

“Oh,” Connor says, pleased, and looks at his feet.

They should really go inside. Jack also should really, really not have him up to his room. They’ve been there before.

“So where do we…” Jack starts, because Connor probably won’t. “What do we do now?”

Connor squares his shoulders, looks at him suddenly, intent. “That night that I wouldn’t… that I told you I had feelings for someone. Right before I found out. That was… the person I had feelings for was John. Or, I guess, you. And I felt weird about it because I also liked _you_ you, Jack you, and so… yeah. Neither of those things has changed, really. I liked talking to John because he didn’t… he just treated me like a person. Just a normal guy. And that’s what I always liked about you, too. So that’s where I am. And now it’s just… whatever you want, I guess.”

Jack breathes out, a little shakily. “That’s…”

The way that Connor is looking at him, strangely confident and somehow hopeful and shivering a little in his thin shirt, it’s just.

“I think I need some time,” Jack says.

Connor looks down, nods. “That’s fine, Jack,” he says. He sounds like he means it. “You have my number. You know where to find me.”

…

_John: so this guy just told me that he had feelings for me_

_Davey: oh yeah?_

_John: you were the first person I wanted to tell_

_John: you’re always the first person I want to tell_

_Davey: Jack…_

_John: I think I need to try something. Can you come back?_

_Davey: yeah_

_Davey: I’ll be right up._

…

Connor knocks on his door almost too quickly. “I hadn’t called for the car, yet,” he says a little sheepishly, “I was hoping… it was dumb.”

“Obviously not,” Jack says, and ushers him inside. There’s never enough air in the room, when Connor’s there, too.

“What did you want to try?” Connor asks. “If you’re going to punch me, you should know that I have a promotional shoot tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to punch you, Christ,” Jack says, and rolls his eyes. “Just… hold on a minute, okay? I’m trying to… just give me a minute.”

Jack looks at him intently. He’d pictured meeting up with Davey, a few times. He would have had to explain himself, definitely, probably grovel a little. He always imagined a vaguely attractive guy, a business-man type, probably a few years older.

They would have gone to get drinks, maybe, as long as they were in Canada and Jack was old enough. Or maybe they would have gone to a hockey game and Jack would have tried not to get recognized. Maybe they would have gotten coffee.

And maybe, once Davey had forgiven him for lying, he would have let Jack do this—lean in and cup his cheeks and kiss him, softly.

When Davey kisses back, he feels like Connor.

Jack pulls back to breathe a little shakily. Connor watches his face.

“I’m still… there’s still two people, in my head,” Jack admits. “I think it might take me a little while before it just feels like… you.”

“Okay,” Connor says. “I’m not going to lie to you again, Jack. What I said before, that it was okay if you needed time, I still mean that. I’ll still mean it even if you decide that you don’t want me in the end.” 

“Wanting you has never been the problem,” Jack tells him. “But I wanted him—Davey—I wanted him, too. Am I allowed to have both?”

“You can have whatever you want,” Connor tells him. He sounds a little unsure for the first time since he knocked on Jack’s door.

Jack bites his bottom lip. “Come here,” he says, and goes over to sit on the edge of the bed. Connor follows, perches beside him while he opens his phone, pulls up twitter. It doesn’t take long for him to deactivate his extra account.

“Oh,” Connor says, when Jack confirms.

“I think,” Jack tells him, “maybe I’ll just text you, from now on. Davey was cool, and everything, but, uh. I’m gonna stick to Connor, if that’s okay.”

“Okay,” Connor says, cheeks pinking up.

“Come here,” Jack says again, but this time he fits his palm around the back of Connor’s neck, pulls him in for a kiss.

It’s so familiar, the way they move together. Jack feels it down to his spine.

“Connor,” he says.

Connor smiles into his neck. Jack can feel the warmth of it. “Yeah,” he whispers back.

…

Jack wakes pressed against him, smiles at the newness of it. Connor has never spent the night, before. They weren’t anything before. And now, they’re…

Connor’s hair is cut short at the nape of his neck; it makes him look vulnerable, and Jack brushes his fingertips over the soft skin there a little helplessly.

Connor shifts, rolls onto his back and traps Jack’s hand under his head. “Hi,” he says softly.

Jack’s still naked and is suddenly very aware of it. “Hi,” he says back.

Connor reaches for him under the covers, turns to look and strokes a hand up his side, over his flank, then loops his arm over Jack’s waist, sighs and settles into his arms.

“You staying?” he asks. He means in bed, or in Toronto, maybe. It’s not what Jack hears.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m staying.”

…

When Jack gets off the ice after morning skate, he has a new message on his phone.

_Connor:_ _I still want to go somewhere warm_

_Jack: not Miami. Like half of my team is going there._

_Connor: deal. Not the Bahamas either, like half of my team is going there haha_

_Jack: There are a lot of Bahamas_

_Jack: I mean islands_

_Jack: we could probably pick one with nobody on it : )_

_Connor: California?_

_Jack: Longer trip. Plus they have hockey teams there lol_

_Connor: a longer trip for you! They’re all long trips for me haha_

_Jack: touche_

_Jack: I’ll keep thinking_

_Connor: I thought the shared bye week would be a blessing but I forgot about having to dodge our teammates lol_

_Connor: they keep asking why I won’t come with them_

_Jack: what did you say?_

_Connor: told them I was meeting up with this person I’m seeing_

_Jack: yikes haha bet you got chirped to hell for that_

_Connor: yeah_

_Connor: I don’t care, though_

_Jack: sap_

_Connor: yeah_

_Jack: love you_

“Who are you texting?” Sam asks a little suspiciously. “You’re smiling at your phone. It’s creepy.”

Jack’s phone buzzes again. _Love you, too._

“Just an old buddy,” he says. “Nobody you know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks as always for reading! Drop me a line or let me know if there is anything additional to tag!


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